‘He went to the King of England at Louviers, and to the camp,’ said Jehane.  ‘The King sent for him.  I sent him not.’

‘Who is there beside the King of England?’

‘Madame Alois of France is there.’

The Count of Saint-Pol put his tongue in his cheek.

‘Oho!’ he said, ’Oho!  That is how it stands?  So she is to be cuckoo, hey?’ He sat square and intent for a moment or two, working his mouth like a man who chews a straw.  Then he slapped his big hand on his knee, and rose up.  ’If I cannot spike this wheel of vice, trust me never.  By my soul, a plot indeed.  Oh, horrible, horrible thief!’ He turned gnashing upon his brother.  ’Now, Eustace, what do you say to your greatest knight in the world?  And what now of your sister, hey?  Little fool, do you not catch the measure of it now?  Two honey years of Jehane Saint-Pol, gossamer pledges of mouth and mouth, of stealing fingers, kiss and clasp; but for the French King’s daughter—­pish! the thing of naught they have made her—­the sacrament of marriage, the treaty, the dowry-fee.  Oh, heaven and earth, Eustace, answer me if you can.’

All three were moved in their several ways:  the Count red and blinking, Eustace red and trembling, Jehane white as a cloth, trembling also, but very silent.  The word was with the younger man.

‘I know nothing of all this, upon my word, my lord,’ he said, confused.  ’I love Count Richard, I love my sister.  There may have been that which, had I loved but one, I had condemned in the other.  I know not, but’—­he saw Jehane’s marble face, and lifted his hand up—­’by my hope, I will never believe it.  In love they came together, my lord; in love, says Jehane, they have parted.  I have heard little of Madame Alois, but my thought is, that kings and the sons of kings may marry kings’ daughters, yet not in the way of love.’

The Count fumed.  ’You are a fool, I see, and therefore not to my purpose.  I must talk with men.  Stay you here, Eustace, and watch over her till I return.  Let none get at her, on your dear life.  There are those who—­sniffing rogues, climbers, boilers of their pots—­keep them out, Eustace, keep them out.  As for you’—­he turned hectoring to the proud girl—­’As for you, mistress, keep the house.  You are not in the market, you are spoilt goods.  You shall go where you should be.  I am still lord of these lands; there shall be no rebellion here.  Keep the house, I say.  I return ere many days.’  He stamped out of the hall; they heard him next rating the grooms at the gate.

Saint-Pol was a great house, a noble house, no doubt of it.  Its counts drew no limits in the way of pedigree, but built themselves a fair temple in that kind, with the Twelfth Apostle himself for head of the corner.  So far as estate went, seeing their country was fruitful, compact, snugly bounded between France and Normandy (owing fealty to the first), they might have been sovereign counts, like the house of